


Dust to Dust

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't- What are we doing here?"</p><p>"I thought we were drinking with the staff, but we seemed to have been abandoned."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration from The Civil Wars song of the same name.
> 
> Set after The Blackout.

He doesn't think anything of it when she slides into the booth next to him. They're here after work, blowing off steam, propping each other up. It’s been a week but they're all still sore about losing the debate, he and Mac more than the rest of them, their mood is still sour around the edges, still defeated. They’re putting on a good show tonight, his team, laughing and carrying on and he finds he's caught up in it too.

Normally, he only stays long enough for Mac to show up. Normally, he sits alone at the bar and watches the stories unfold in exaggerated gestures and waves of silent laughter. Tonight he's been drawn in. He wants them to know how much he appreciates the work they do. As much as he harps on Mac about them being young and inexperienced, they're good at what they do and he's proud of that.

Mac laughs, low and tired, her glass clinking against his as she sets it on the table. Jim pulls another face as if egging her on as another round of shots is passed around the table.

"Charlie wants to see me Monday morning." She says it so softly he almost misses it, the quiet defeated note after a long week, but he can feel her eyes on him, steady and waiting as he turns. 

She looks exhausted, righteous anger gone awry. He almost wishes he could lord the threat of firing her over her, and do it convincingly enough to bolster her with the victory of holding him off. It’s a tactic that’s grown old, it’s effects eroded by the tide that's sweeping them away. 

The line between them has blurred. He's still hurt, she's still wounded, but things are changing. There are more unhurried pauses, silent exchanges, ghosts of familiar gestures, brushing of fingertips. 

The space between them now, here, is hardly professional, but nothing with Mac ever is. The void behind her yawns, reaching for an invisible third. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"Leona-"

"Charlie would have called me."

She considers this, squinting at him in the half-dark of the bar, before nodding and laying her head on his shoulder. She's cold, the chill of a cool summer breeze, the antithesis to the heat that burns within him.

"Tired?"

She sighs and tips her head down, slipping her eyes shut when he slides his arm behind her to rest his hand on her shoulder. It's instinctive. It's plain stupid. They have an audience, and while they might not object, he sure as hell does.

Tess is goading Jim, eyes bright, teasing. Neal is recounting stories about comments left on the blog; he seems to be holding most of the table's attention. If anyone's noticed he and Mac are here they're not letting on.

Warm tears dampen the collar of his shirt. 

He feels his heart sputter to a stop, his grip on her shoulder tighten. He squeezes her shoulder, reassuring, still trying to follow the thread of Neal's story, still trying not to give into the longing that had filled him the way she filled the space around him. The conversation skips and sputters. He gives up on trying to follow it. Jim shoves his chair back, drink in hand, to stand.

"It's late." He announces over Tess' protests. "I have to be up in the morning. You know how lines at the laundry mats can be. Long. Neal."

"Laundry? Laundry right. I should go too. I'm pretty sure I have a thing, sometime, tomorrow."

"Smooth." An offhand comment from someone, Will’s not sure who anymore. 

There's an up swell of laughter, a shuffling of feet and bags, bills thrown on the table. 

Will's looking at Jim like he might kill him, but even that's not getting him an explanation for the sudden exodus. It's like he's invisible, Jim's quick nod the only sign anyone knows he's not in on the joke. He wants to say something but he doesn't want to disturb Mac. There doesn't seem to be any waterworks but he doesn't want to put her in that position in front of the staff. She's usually good about holding it together. The fact that she's slipping is unsettling.

"Do you want me to call you a cab?" He asks when the others have cleared out.

"I don't want a cab." There's a sniffle at the end of the statement, but she seems more melancholy than upset.

"Can I get you another drink?"

"I don't- What are we doing here?"

"I thought we were drinking with the staff, but we seemed to have been abandoned."

"Not here," she sighs, nose tickling his neck as she tips her head to blot her eyes on his shirt. "Here."

He traces the trail of a tear down her cheek, more tender than he knows he should be. "What's on your mind MacKenzie?"

"Shhh," she whispers. "I'm warm and it's so quiet. Sometimes, Will, sometimes I can still hear you think."

"Mac-"

"Shh," she repeats more sharply. "I just want to be here. Don't ruin that, just this once."

He breathes out, one long breath, and he feels her echo his sigh. She looks like she's asleep, worming her way closer, burrowing against his chest. His fingers tingle from where her head's pressed against the battered muscles in his shoulder. He wiggles them experimentally and a smile flickers across her face. 

"Sometimes I wonder how we fucked this all up.” She shifts closer, begging him to hold her. "I look at you when you look at me and I can't breathe. We're so- and we could have- I hate going home to an empty apartment, Will. I don't want to keep pretending that being back here, with you, doesn’t hurt because it does. It fucking hurts. I remember in Islamabad thinking that nothing could hurt worse than being stabbed like that. Nothing could be more terrifying, but this is worse. I can't feel anything past the hole in my chest. We could fix this, Billy, we could-"

"Wake up one morning and realize I've been a giant douchebag."

“Yes.” She sighs. “We could wake up one morning and we could stop. We could stop and it wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

“It’s not that-“

“We could stop.”

“I can’t. I never-“ He sputters to a stop and they both fall silent. She’s breathing low and even, content. He draws her closer, hand curled around her shoulder and looks over her head at the bar. There’s nothing to see there now, but he looks out into the half dark and wonders if maybe she isn’t right.


End file.
